MINOR MISERIES.

NO. I.--TO A LADY ON WHOSE TABLE-CLOTH HE HAD UPSET THE MUSTARD-POT.

Dear Lady, in your dining-room
I sat, a melancholy slave.
Your smiles could hardly chase my gloom;
While others jested, I was grave.
And still you saw me sit and sit--
"Enough of this," you said, "come, come,
Be cheerful." While I merely bit
A foolish, irresponsive thumb,
And found no comfort in the act,
And cursed myself, the clumsy Goth,
As void of fingers as of tact,
Who spilt the mustard on the cloth!

That was the cause of all my woe--
Good lack, I blame my thumbs in vain;
Still on the cloth's expanded snow
I seem to see that yellow stain.
And still you sit and speak me fair,
And still your Butler grimly smiles,
The while I paint in mustard there
A sketch-map of the British Isles.
I think it had repaid my guilt
Had you flashed fire like Ashtaroth,
And scorched the clumsy wretch who spilt
That flood of mustard on your cloth.